


The Ternary Star

by Shirokokuro



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: /walks off camera to reveal Yoda's force ghost T-posing in the background/, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boba Fett's Taxi Service, Din Djarin Needs a Hug, Din: If I see any more of this space magic I'm gonna lose it, Disaster dad retires on a farm for two seconds to fully process angst, Fix-It, Gen, Good Parent Din Djarin, POV Din Djarin, Post-Season 2, Prophetic Visions, Reunions, The Mandalorian (TV) Season 2 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:35:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28288551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shirokokuro/pseuds/Shirokokuro
Summary: “Those who live here come to seek peace,” Kuiil had said.But even here, peace doesn’t feel like something Din can find.
Relationships: Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda, Din Djarin & Luke Skywalker, Din Djarin & Yoda
Comments: 56
Kudos: 352





	1. Unary

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Тройная звезда](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28508859) by [DoloresClaiborne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoloresClaiborne/pseuds/DoloresClaiborne)



> Hey howdy hey are we gettin' angst today~ (TT^TT)b
> 
> (Thank you for the editing help, Danudane!! ❤)

Sand shifts under his boots.

“Sure you won’t come with us?” Fett asks from the ramp of _Slave 1_. Fennec is beside him, slumped against the wall with a look that’s both sympathetic and indifferent.

“Yes,” Din says. “This is where I should be.”

“Well, if you ever do need us, don’t be a stranger.” Fett’s rifle clinks when he gestures to the saber hilt at Din’s side. “At the very least, I’d say I owe you a drink for that. Wish I’d have been there.”

Din’s arm shifts faintly to cover the weapon. “Thank you,” he repeats softly. He does mean it, truly. He just… has other things on his mind.

Din’s so deep in it that he almost doesn’t catch the device Fett tosses him. 

A communicator.

“It has a direct link to my ship,” the man says, trudging his way back up the ramp. “I mean it. If you need a favor or change your mind—” Fennec picks up the thought, making a call motion with her hand before she turns to follow.

Then, the ramp pulls up, the ship spewing Arvala-7 sand out in wave after wave, and Din’s left alone in the silence.

* * *

Kuiil’s residence is exactly the way Din remembers it.

It’s a surprise, in a way, to duck under the entry and find Jawas have touched none of it. In retrospect, Kuiil was probably one of the few people they’d respect enough not to. The nature of that leaves the whole place feeling scarily lived in. The dishes had been drying, now coated with a layer of dust, and there are cups of tea on the table. One of them is half-full.

When he spies the empty shoe cupboard, Din wars with himself—not for the first time—about whether he is imposing. If this was a good idea at all.

Cara had seemed to question it.

_(“Nevarro,” the trooper answered for the both of them back on Fett’s ship. She jerked her chin toward the Moff. “Mando’ll help me bring this criminal in, and we’ll make sure he answers for what he’s done.”_

_And yet, there was only one place Din could think of._

_“Arvala?” Cara asked when he mentioned it. Fennec merely tilted her head, the closest to surprise she’d probably get. “Why would you want to go there?”_

_Din turned his gaze to his feet. For the first time in a long time, he had no pressing reason to go much of anywhere. Maybe that was why it felt like the perfect time to go nowhere.)_

In the mid-twilight quiet, Din’s helmet slips off surprisingly easily, ruffling his hair before it’s in his hands—the visor staring back at him condemningly. It’s been the face looking back at him in the mirror for decades. Now, it’s not.

A loss of identity is what it is. Of everything he’s known.

Din opens the closet nearest the entryway. It’s empty save for a few folded blankets and a bottle of bactaspray. It shouldn’t be this way, but the rest of his armor slides off with ease. Cuisses, gauntlets, and his breastplate find their way onto a shelf. Years of work to get them. The armor doesn’t feel like it’s his, though.

Din’s not Mandalorian.

And it’s not because he removed his helmet that he believes that. It’s simply because he can’t call himself something that he doesn’t understand. Din thought he knew what it was, if not to be Mandalorian than at least to be…

( _Brown eyes. The patter of feet. A small face turning to meet his.)_

…something else.

Until he understands that, Din can’t stomach laying claim to this armor. That’s what he tells himself until all that’s left on him is the linen gambeson and his right shoulder pauldron.

Din moves to shed the latter, then stops.

Just below his fingertips, the mudhorn signate glistens. Din watches it for a moment, debating.

A decision made, he shuts the closet doors.

The pauldron stays.

* * *

It’s not two days later that the dreams start.

They’re different from any dreams Din’s had before, the contents writhing before his eyes in opposition to the weight of his body and the thickness of the air. Authentic. That’s the way he’d describe them. Like wherever he goes is tethered to reality.

(The spear cuts through air.)

These dreams never happen on Arvala. That much is obvious, but for someone who’s traveled far and wide, Din can safely say he’s never been to this planet before. Nonetheless, it feels familiar. As soon as he opens his eyes in that fluid space of his mind, he can hear children's laughter (“Master! Master!”), can smell the song of wildflowers and rushing water, and can taste the sweetness of sunshine on his tongue. Like childhood, he thinks, encapsulated in one moment.

(The spear nicks Din’s cheek.)

A blink, and a wind is whirling past him, constellations and moon phases spinning overhead with a violence so fast Din’s certain the ground will fall out from under him. He pulls up an arm despite wearing his helmet here, struggling to shelter his sight while his cape flails behind him. The armor should make him feel protected, implacable and strong, but all he feels is helpless.

The howling storm is split by a crackle of light—of thunder—then stops.

Cautiously, Din drops his arm.

A cliff edge stretches before him, cutting the world into two horizons. Grass blades sway against his ankles, and the sky—

The sky is fire.

Mobile now, Din races forward until the cliff horizon lowers to reveal a concentric building in the distance. The structure is spewing smoke, the stone spires surrounding it nothing more than torches. Din moves to jump, to skid down the cliff face in an effort to help, but the dream kicks him square in the chest.

He tries to push back. Fails. Somehow, the air this far away’s clotting with fumes, gnawing at his lungs and dragging him to his knees. “Wait,” he chokes. He swears he can hear people trapped there, swears he could help if he could only _move_.

But the ash thickens like frost, and the dream-scape spirals at the edges, liquifying and draining away until all Din sees are three stars winking at him overhead, two gold, one red, before they too die in the flames.

(Din drops to a crouch, breathing heavily while the beskar spear clatters behind him onto the sand.)

(“Those who live here come to seek peace,” Kuiil had said.)

(Even here, peace doesn’t feel like something Din can find.)


	2. Binary

It quickly becomes a hobby of Din’s to find trouble and lay it to rest. A distraction, of sorts—that's what it is. From the thoughts in his head.

Frightened eyes look up at him. “You’re all right now,” Din says as he sheathes his spear. Bandits are littered on the ravine floor around him, unconscious or worse. Din remains untouched. “Were you hurt?”

The traveler shakes his head hastily, clutching a bag to his chest. “N–n–no, sir.”

Din nods. “Can you get back to town on your own?”

The man scrambles up on unsteady legs. “Yes, sir. I, um… If you follow me, I can pay you. I have more money at home, and I—” The merchant flinches when Din walks past him, as if expecting to be shot dead, before pointing in the other direction. “Oh, my home—it’s this way.”

Din ignores him and keeps walking. Eventually, the man gets the idea (“Thank you, sir!”) and scampers off. Din wishes that'd be the end of it. But of course, he's alone now, which lately has come to mean that he'll have company. As soon as the merchant's footsteps have faded, the heat in his peripherals wavers, twists and tilts into a blue-hazed figure.

 _“Curious_ ," a voice drones. _"_ _Use the saber, you still do not.”_

Din ignores that too.

* * *

As soon as he jolts awake, Din’s blaster’s in his hand and aimed in front of him.

One breath. Two.

The panic of his dream fades into the familiar background of Kuiil’s house. His gun’s pointed at the closet.

No one’s here.

Din keeps his blaster raised, though, breathing heavily from where he was reclined on the floor. His blood’s too hot right now. He could’ve sworn there was—

A sound, and the blaster points elsewhere. A small lizard has skittered out from underneath a chair, peering at him curiously. “Why are you here?” it doesn’t ask, just slithers out the door.

Din waits another minute before grumbling to himself. (“Paranoid.”) He sticks his gun in its holster and heaves himself up.

A small fire’s blazing not five minutes later, a kettle of water boiling on top. The crickets and frogs are still going outside in harmony with the shift of the desert. It’s tranquil here. Restful. That shouldn’t make Din as uneasy as it does.

“ _Worsening, your dreams are_.”

Silently, Din pokes at the hearth. Despite being awake, he sees the silhouette of spires flashing in the flames, hears the groaning of wood right before it splinters. “Nothing I haven’t had before,” he says, more to himself than anyone.

The fire crackles.

“ _Ignoring problems, make them go away, it does not.”_

Din chances a look at his company, then removes the kettle. He’s pretty sure the ghost—whatever he is—is completely permeable. “Water?” Din offers dryly before pouring himself a cup.

The figure chuckles. _“A funny man, you are indeed.”_

Din brings the water to his lips and blows at the steam.

 _“Come here to escape, you have. Unbecoming of Mand’alor._ ”

The saber hilt at Din’s side suddenly feels heavier than usual, but he doesn’t rise to the bait.

_“Not well-read, I am, but know of your people, I do. Heard of that blade, I have.”_

“If that's the case, perhaps _you’d_ like it.”

The figure laughs again, pounding on the ground with his cane like Din’s just said the funniest joke he’s heard in a long while. “ _I see. Want it, you do not.”_

Din picks at a chip in his cup absentmindedly.

_“Want what, then?”_

Din lifts his gaze to the apparition. He’s old, small. Seeing him hurts because of who Din’s reminded of. “You’re a jedi?” he dodges instead.

The mirage tilts an ear as if considering the thought. Din assumes it means yes.

“Did you know him?” he asks. “When he was training?”

At this, the figure hums like he can’t remember so far back. He seems to understand who Din’s referring to regardless. “ _Long time ago, that was_. _Different world, and yet, so like this one._ ” The jedi watches Din like he’s seeing someone else in his place. “ _Many lost people, even now, there still are. Struggling to find their way.”_

Din takes a sip, then sets the cup down on the table beside himself. He spins it idly. “Is that why you’re here? Trying to find your way?”

 _“Why_ you _are here,”_ the apparition corrects. _“Come to the start, you have. When what you wanted, you knew. Before change.”_

Din pauses, then shakes his head and stands up. He knew he shouldn’t have acknowledged the presence; he should’ve gone about his business as if the being weren’t there at all. Din tosses the leftover water out the window and slings his spear onto his back.

The figure continues to talk, the sounds coming like the distance between them hasn’t changed. “ _An important destiny, you do have,”_ he reasons sagely. “ _Run from it, you cannot.”_

“Destiny’s a myth.”

_“Then the child—”_

Din stops abruptly.

“ _Meeting him, what do you call?”_

Turning to look over his right shoulder, Din finds the old jedi with a raised eyebrow, amused. (They look so similar, truly, like a window into the future—far past when Din will be alive to see. He hopes… He hopes the kid lives as long.)

Hovering at the threshold, Din finally answers. “Good fortune,” he says. “That’s what I’d call it.”

* * *

It’s transcended just dreaming now.

Almost every time he closes his eyes, Din’s flooded with an onslaught of sights that aren’t his own. The arrangement and proportion of those three stars are etched into the backs of his eyelids like scars, and the bitter bite of soot tarnishes everything he tastes.

Din jabs the spear into the air. Twirls it once. Transfers hands.

Stop.

“Was this your doing?” he asks through labored breaths.

The apparition’s been observing him all morning, seated on a small stack of boxes at the front of Kuiil’s house. Beside him, the animal pen sits empty. “ _Give me too much credit, you do. Works in mysterious ways, the force does.”_

Din makes a forward slice, then slips his shoe underneath to kick the top half of the spear back up. Whatever these dreams are, he just wants them to stop. He’s tried close to everything. Even training to the point of fainting hasn’t done much; he still wakes up in a panic.

_“Simple, the answer to all your questions is.”_

Din draws himself to a full stand, swiping at a line of sweat. “Care to share?”

The jedi jerks his head in the direction of a mountain range. Din knows what’s there: an abandoned garrison, the same one he and IG-11 dealt with. Din went there last month shortly after arriving—just to see—like maybe he’d find the kid there still waiting for him as if the past months had never happened at all.

The place was empty, and all Din felt was stupid.

“No,” Din says decidedly, going back to practicing. “I can’t protect him. I’m not strong enough.”

_“Then stronger, you must become.”_

Din overextends and the spear hits the dirt at an angle that sends it spiraling out of his grasp. He moves to pick it up but ultimately sits down on the ground himself. “Don’t,” he warns.

The apparition’s ears rise, then lower. The kid did the same when he was curious.

“I finished my mission,” Din explains. “He’s with your kind, like he’s meant to be. With people who can understand him. I can’t…” Din sighs and starts scraping the dirt from the treads of his boots with a knife. “I barely even know his name. That’s not enough to raise a child on.”

“ _But love him, you do_.”

Din doesn’t disagree.

He can hear the ghost’s smile. “ _One thing about Mandalorians, always admired, I have. Treasure family, they do. More than rules. More than culture. In this way, very different from jedi, they are.”_

Din glances up without stopping, sensing the melancholic change.

 _“Wonder often, I do. Would the Republic still be here if different rules, there had been…. My own pupil, lost, I may not have….”_ The figure thins his mouth, his ears falling. _“However,”_ he continues, _“thinks the same as you, Master Skywalker does. Understand, I believe he would, that truly most important, family is.”_

The knife returns to its scabbard. “Doesn’t really matter now. I never asked where they were going. Wouldn’t even know where to look.” Din clutches his right shoulder where his sole piece of armor is, still mourning the loss.

That is, until a cane whacks him on the head.

“Hey—!”

 _“Been where they are, you have,”_ the jedi clucks. “ _Forget so easily, do you?_ ”

Din blinks at him, honestly just surprised that the ghost has been tangible this whole time. “I…”

“ _There, every night, you have gone.”_

Din’s eyebrows knit together, mood sobering. His fingers reach for the spear on instinct, already preparing to bolt. “You mean…” His mind instantly jumps to green fields and leaden smoke and screams.

The jedi hums. “ _Ternary star systems, quite rare, they are. For a bounty hunter, easy to find, this place should be.”_


	3. Ternary

_“We’ve got clearance,”_ Fett’s baritone echoes. _“Prepare for landing.”_

Din holds onto the sides of his chair while the barrel of _Slave 1_ rotates. Fennec, meanwhile, is completely unaffected, taking a long draft of spotchka without spilling a single drop. She follows it with a melodramatic “ah” of refreshment. “Missed a lot of fun on Tatooine. Who’d have thought Fortuna would hoard so much booze?”

Din shoots her a withering look behind his helmet. It’s odd to be wearing it again, the sense that he’s an imposter still smothering, but it’s nice at the same time. A return to the familiar.

Fett’s voice returns over the intercom. _“We’ve got business to tend to on Eriadu, so if you need a pick up, we won’t be able to get back for a while.”_

“That’s all right,” Din replies, loud enough to be heard over the whir of the engine. He might need all of that time if the jedi’s as hard to find as he was before. “Still think I should pay you, though.”

Fennec snorts into her drink. “Don’t mention it. Currying ‘royal’ connections is to our benefit.” Fett’s flipped the intercom off, but they can both hear him cackling in the cockpit.

Din sighs.

Thankfully, that’s when the ship jerks to a stop, both him and Fennec grunting as it tosses them against their seatbelts. As soon as the exhaust pipes hiss, Din’s out of his chair. He’s antsy to see if his guess was right or if this whole venture was just a big waste of time.

The ramp descends, the air decompressing, and…well… Nothing’s really _that_ familiar. The sky’s tainted a watercolor blue—a somewhat similar shade to the one he’s dreamed, but even that’s barely visible through the soup-liked humidity and smog of the outpost.

For a place as far out as the Trilon Sector, it was a surprise to find Batuu even had a trade center at all.

“You go to the weirdest places,” Fennec comments behind him, pursing her lips at an Amani who’s hauling what could either be food or dung. “Seriously. Tatooine. Think it over.”

“I’ll do that.” Din steps out onto the landing pad, distracted as his mind races. ( _Where would a jedi go?_ ) He barely remembers to thank them for the ride.

Fennec gives him a rueful salute. “Of course, your highness.”

The wind kicks up as they go, and then, Din’s left to his own devices. Thankfully, he’s got a few ideas.

Quickly reading the surroundings, he slips away from prying eyes. (“Beskar,” people murmur, a comment Din’s grown unused to.) From first impressions, the outpost’s not much different from how Nevarro used to be. There are numerous crates of illegal animals, some of the creatures broiling on spits, and when a brigand blows someone’s skull clean open in the street, no one bats an eye.

 _Jedi_ , Din repeats to himself, trying to imagine the young man from Gideon’s light cruiser. Could this really be the place he’d train a disciple? It doesn’t feel like it.

Either way, Din’s stuck here for the next week, so he might as well gather as much information as he can.

The outpost is large enough that it takes an hour to get to the center of it. From there, it’s easy to identify the break in the trend: The buildings here are all low-set and rust-worn—all except for Oga’s Cantina. Din takes that as a hint and makes his way down into the entrance.

The number of faces that turn to him are definitely promising, Din notes while he pauses in the doorway. The band in the corner’s stopped.

Din surveys the crowd to see who moves first.

Five seconds later, a glass clinks from the bar counter, a Blutopian snorting through a pentafurcated muzzle, and the conversations gradually pick back up.

Cautiously, Din removes his hand from his blaster and lowers himself to a table without incident. He’s in the middle of planning how to get the Blutopian’s attention when the very same person trudges over to him.

 **“A Mandalorian,”** the Blutopian says in Huttese, skipping any greeting. She scratches at the wattle of her neck, slimy skin sparkling in the leaden light, and her pupils glean over Din’s armor just a second too long.

( _“When one chooses to walk the way of the Mandalore, you are both hunter—and prey.”_ )

 **“Something like that,”** he concedes.

**“Whatever brings you to Black Spire? Not a bounty, I hope.”**

**“Not quite. I’m looking for a place. The quiet kind.”**

The Blutopian sucks in a swampy breath. **“Well, you’ve a whole planet with not even a million people. Go any direction and pretty soon you’ll have more solitude than you know what to do with.”**

It’s a vaguer answer than Din would care for. He settles back in his chair, watching the individual closely. **“‘Oga’, is it?”**

The Blutopian shrugs but doesn’t deny the name.

**“Solitude’s not _exactly_ what I’m here for.”**

Oga’s quick to build a front of deniability. **“Look,”** she huffs laxly. **“We cooperate with the New Republic here. If you’re trying to hide away, I’m afraid—”**

A bag of cash hits the table.

Din waits.

Carefully, Oga slides the bag into her pocket while glancing about. **“There is one place I know,”** she mumbles, whipping out a rag to start cleaning the table. **“But the only reason no one’d find you there is because no one’s ever been able to _get_ there. Doesn’t matter how good of a pilot you are. You’d crash without even knowing what you’d hit.”**

Din stays silent, implying a “go on” that makes the Blutopian snort. Another chunk of change does the trick.

 **“Around half of this planet’s just ocean,”** Oga continues, gold irises glinting like a knife. **“Been covered in storms since the cataclysm, but people think there’s an island—say, 100 kilometers east of here. If you take a boat or fly, your ship gets thrown against the rocks. The whole place’s littered with ‘em like one big deathtrap.”**

**“Sounds dangerous.”**

Oga starts wiping her hands. **“Doubt even the best of pilots could manage it, and last I checked, you came here without a ship.”**

**“Word travels fast.”**

**“Only to me,”** Oga counters, stuffing the rag into her cummerbund before leaning forward again. **“But perhaps you should stick around, Mandalorian. I’m sure you could find a much better use for this beskar of yours.”** A nail drags over the steel of his vambrace, sending off a stray spark. Din lets it happen, unintimidated, before pushing himself to a stand.

“ **Thanks for the help.”**

The entire way out of the outpost, gazes follow. “Mandalorian,” they whisper to each other—as if they have any idea what that means.

* * *

Oga was right: No one in their right mind would fly through this.

Din’s foot slips on a rock face.

The beskar spear’s the only thing that keeps him from plummeting into the ocean maws below, a wave swelling just below his feet and lancing a glacial spray straight through his clothes. Din can’t see it, can barely even hear over the clamor. Touch, smell, and taste is what he’s working with.

The only positive is that he lost Oga’s hitmen as soon as he passed the shoreline.

Din manages to tap the button for his jet-pack, two spews of fire lighting the dark before Din topples back to the rock face. Everything might as well be ice given the lack of friction: There are no footholds, the stone steeples jutting out of the ocean eroded to smoothness, and Din’s fingers and feet are clumsy and numb.

With a grunt, he pulls himself to a crouch, fighting the wind and rain. He’s trying to hone in on the impact of the waves long enough to distinguish the groan of water collapsing in on itself from the explosion of them against stone.

Anything to give him a sense of direction.

A moment of focus has Din guessing there’s another structure somewhere in front. He makes the leap, another burst of fire from his jet-pack chasing off the shadows, and after fighting to stick the landing, he’s made it another six meters.

Stopping to fill his lungs, Din almost reconsiders this whole thing. The goings are agonizingly slow when he can’t see to save his life, but he knows one thing for certain: Storms like this have centers, and if he were going to hide somewhere, he’d reckon that’d be it.

It’s not like he can turn back at this point, either.

The shore’s been gone for ages, and by how much the storm’s picked up, Din’s guessing he’s cresting the eyewall. Better to keep going, he tells himself, sticking a knife into the ground when a gust threatens to punch him clean off.

The chaos is scarily reminiscent of that dream of his. That sense of foreboding like everything’s giving way around him, fire exchanged for ice while smoke-filled air’s traded for no air at all.

More than anything, Din prays that his nightmare was only that—a nightmare rather than a premonition. And yet, he already feels like he knows it’s not.

Din yanks his knife from the rock, determined not to fail at this.

Bit by hellish bit, the darkness slips by. The intelligent part of him reasons that he can’t make it, but then, there’s Kuiil’s voice in his head like a challenge ( _“You are a Mandalorian!”_ ), and somehow, Din finds he’s made it another six meters, then another.

He must be getting close. He just has to be. Lightning’s leaping across the sky now, showcasing the swirl of the cloud ceiling; it’s tightening.

Din’s repeating the same line every moment: one more jump. One more jump and he’ll have made it.

And then, he’s there.

The wind kicks up, one last burst of it, and dies to the point that Din can hear the rush of blood in his eardrums; the clouds turn to wispy strands that dissipate into aqua skies; and thirty meters ahead, there’s a mound of an island on the horizon.

Out of breath, Din tugs off his helmet to spit out the saltwater that inevitably got through, then blinks away the daylight. The overall impression of the island lines up with what he remembers: quiet and simple. On one hand, he’s grateful for that, wishing his search has come to the end. And on the other, he hopes there was never anything to search for to begin with.

Thirty seconds later, the soles of Din’s boots connect with grass, Din himself barely keeping upright due to the pull of his soaked clothing and general exhaustion. From the cliff face, he gets a good enough view.

The island’s slightly concave, dipping into a plain that’s alive with flying insects and ferns and grasses. A hovel of a place nests in the center, not the building Din recalls desolated by flames, but it’s clearly lived in if the active chimney’s any indicator.

Din glances up to the sky, marking the stars to find only two. The red one is missing.

There’s a second where he’s relieved, thinking that it wasn’t real after all, but—

“Hello again.”

Din whirls around, spear in hand with his helm in the other.

It’s like déjà vu. The jedi looks almost identical to how he had upon their first meeting, ocean a menacing backdrop in contrast with the man’s gentle demeanor.

Din’s more concerned that his presage has just been proven true.

“A mutual friend told me you were coming,” the jedi explains, holding up a hand.

“You’re Skywalker?”

The man nods, and Din lowers his spear, conflicted. If the jedi’s fine, then the kid must be too. But still….

“May I ask how you found this place?” the jedi asks casually, slotting his arms within the folds of his sleeves.

“Your friend didn’t tell you?”

The jedi laughs. “The voices of the past can merely point the way. I was hoping you’d enlighten me.”

Din shuffles, resting his helmet against his hip. “A vision led me.”

“A vision?”

Din casts his gaze aside in something like admission. It sounds dumb saying it aloud, but then again, if someone had told him last year about sorcerers and magic, he wouldn’t have believed them. “I came to warn you.”

The jedi’s posture grows more serious while his expression remains light. “What about?”

“This place. I don’t think…” Din shuffles again, distress growing before changing topics to the one of most import. “The Ubaat system,” he works out, pointing upward. “How often can you see all three from here?”

The jedi regards him warily. “…Well,” he starts, “the first star you can see all year-round. The other two come into view for only a few months at a time. It’s rare to see them all simultaneously.”

“When?”

“Not for another decade or two at least.”

Din’s shoulders relax, finally allowing his lungs to fill fully. Years, his brain processes. No immediate danger.

The jedi must sense that peril’s not imminent, his posture easing in turn. “The child kept hoping you’d come,” he says, returning to small talk that Din knows how to maneuver. “He’s missed you terribly.”

Din shouldn’t feel comforted by that, but he does. “How long do you think his training will take?”

The jedi contemplates it. “Hard to say. He’s too young to study the blade. I doubt he could start that for another thirty, maybe even forty—"

“No!” The jedi looks politely surprised until Din regains his composure. “No, that’s…That’s too long.”

Thirty years.

Din already knows this place won’t be here by then.

A tense second comes and goes in which the jedi vets him closely. “What exactly do you see? In those visions of yours?”

Din debates with himself, thumbing the grooves of his helmet. “Fire,” he answers.

The jedi’s eyes widen in recognition—only a fraction but enough. Din wonders, momentarily, if they haven’t been sharing the same dream.

Gradually, their focus drifts to the school in the distance. It really does feel like the sole piece of tranquility in a world that wants nothing more than to destroy it.

“Three years,” the jedi amends suddenly, at odds with himself. “I don’t know how much he can learn within that time, but…at the very least, he should have a good mastery of the force. That’s all I can guarantee.”

“…Thank you.”

The jedi nods his head, still lost in thought while the ocean crashes behind. “Perhaps, as a Mandalorian, you might be able to complete his training,” he thinks aloud. “I don’t know for certain, but I…I sense something. Something amiss.” His voice grows quiet. “Lately, I fear that we haven’t seen the end of dark times. That we’re merely preparing for a war that we don’t understand.”

Din doesn’t reply, just watches a man consumed by a worry he can’t seem to shake. “I’ll be back for him,” he vows.

In time, the jedi sheds the ominous mood like leaves in autumn. “Might I ask what you plan to do until then? Three years is still a ways off.”

Din reaches for something on his belt, the burden one he’s well-acquainted with. “I think,” he says, weighing the Darksaber in his hand, “I have things to do yet—for my people.”

The jedi looks at the weapon curiously but doesn’t inquire further. “It sounds like you have quite the journey ahead of you. When you return, I can promise your son will be much stronger.”

Din doesn’t refute the implication, holding the saber tighter. “As will I.”

The jedi observes him like he can see the potential there. “In any case,” he restarts, all civility, “I imagine you’ll at least be staying with us for a few days before you go. I’d hate to send you back the way you came, considering…well....” The man gestures to the sopping state of Din’s clothes.

“It’s all right. I’d just be a distraction from your lessons.”

“Nonsense,” the jedi dismisses in a way that would feel too friendly with anyone else. “Besides, given your son, he’ll dig up a distraction sooner or later. I’d much rather it be you.”

The man turns without giving Din a chance to protest further, so Din follows. It’s a short walk, maybe thirty minutes, before the both of them are at the foot of the school. It really is just a shack, around three meters tall with a tapestry cloth acting as a door. The jedi’s ship, which is hidden behind it, is only slightly smaller in dimension. 

“I know it’s not much to look at now,” the jedi admits while he perches himself on a wing of his aircraft. “But it’ll get there one day. Who knows? Maybe by the time my nephew’s old enough, I’ll have an actual door made.”

Din appraises the place from a ways back. “It’s nice,” he decides.

The jedi starts clearing off wrenches and wires from where he was repairing a flashback suppressor. “I like to think so, anyway. You go on ahead. I’ve some work to finish up.”

Din’s just about to enter when the man calls out. “And Mandalorian?”

He stops.

The jedi’s plaintive again, turning a wrench over in his hands. “Whatever you saw,” he manages, “I hope more than anything that it never comes to pass.”

“…So do I.”

They both share a look of understanding before Din ducks into the entrance.

The school is bigger than it seems from the outside, a blue and white astromech charging in the back beside the fireplace where a pot of soup bubbles. Everything else is wooden, plain. It takes a second for Din’s eyes to lock on the short desk under the window—and the person in it.

Immediately, the world rights itself.

Din can only see the back of the kid’s head, the ears down-turned while his attention's on a butterfly floating outside. It’s so characteristic of him that it hurts.

Silently, Din sits on the floor next to him, mindful not to make a noise as he sets his helmet down. It’s selfish, but it’s just so calm here, like time itself has stopped, and Din thinks that if he doesn’t move—doesn’t breathe—maybe things will stay that way. He could live in this one second for the rest of his life.

At least the child seems content here. He coos softly when the butterfly flits away, nails mindlessly clinking against a necklace in his hand. Din smiles. He’s touched the kid kept it, although he has an idea of something that he might like more.

Soundlessly, Din retrieves an object from a pouch on his belt, taking in the shining metal one last time as he prepares to break the moment.

“Grogu.”

Ears perk, heralding the slow turn of brown eyes that eventually land on him—and the knob by extension.

Squealing, the kid’s face immediately splits into a grin, clamoring for the ball with sparkling eyes. Of course he’d miss his toy more than he missed Din. The man just snorts out a laugh when the child’s focus finally returns to him, still babbling excitedly, before scrambling onto his lap and flopping against the metal of his chest plate.

“I missed you too,” Din says, patting his back lightly.

Over the next hour, Din asks him small, harmless questions, things he imagines the kid answers in his own way. Little by little, the boy's happy cries quiet until he stills altogether in his lap, cape yanked over him. Din should find him a more comfortable place to sleep, but he can’t bear to move. Instead, he thumbs the peach-fuzz of an ear and listens to the beep of the droid unit in the corner, the breeze through the window, and the hushed breaths of his son.

It can’t last forever. That much is obvious, but still, Din soaks in as much of it as he can, crafting a memory that he can revisit again and again. He’s missing him already, but after three years…well, maybe then Din can finally achieve a bit of peace for himself.

It’s something he’d never be able to find on Arvala, Din finally understands as he cradles his son just that much closer.

After all, peace for Mandalorians has never been a place.


End file.
